Over Yonder, page 10
Caroline was thinking about all this as she quietly exited her mother’s trailer before sunrise. She had taken the cash from Tater’s wallet. Her eye was blackened, her lip was busted, and there was the scent of blood in her swollen sinuses. There was a cat in her arms. Backpack over her shoulder. Goldfish in a jar. A necklace repaired with Scotch tape dangled around her neck. The flash drive in her pocket was poking her in the leg, its outline visible through the stretchy fabric of her yoga pants.
The young woman gingerly closed the door behind her. She stepped into the Honda Civic, wedging herself tightly behind the wheel. Caroline felt like a pregnant African bush elephant climbing into the cockpit of a go-kart.
She took a deep breath.
The blind cat was already curled up and sleeping in the passenger seat where she had placed him. She was wearing her mother’s clothes. A black sweatshirt with holes in the sleeve cuffs where her mother presumably hitched her thumbs. She had no way of washing all the wine from her skin and hair, so she had done her best to rinse herself using a bottle of water she’d found in Tater’s car.
Outside, the first pangs of gray were peeking behind the Smokies. She wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing. If she was doing the right thing, why was this so frightening? She was waiting for the warm feeling that accompanies good decisions, but it wasn’t coming. She just felt lost and alone. And most of all, she felt different from the person she had been twenty-four hours earlier. Now that her mother’s remains were dust, everything was different. Nothing was ever going to be the same again. This was the beginning of the rest of her life.
Caroline turned over the engine. The motor sputtered to life. The icy morning air filled with blue exhaust. She looked at her own reflection in the mirror. She touched her battered cheek and probed her split lip. She stamped the clutch, moved the gearshift.
And White Trash drove away.
* * *
The Best Western’s automatic doors parted when Caroline walked in. She was rattled from the drive. Her good eye was swollen, which made it hard to concentrate. But not too bad to drive.
There was a continental breakfast going on in the hotel. Guests were waiting in a long line for their granite bananas, fake eggs, and oranges shriveled like shrunken skulls. The first person she saw was Amos, fixing a plate, shambling through a line of hotel guests, using his three-legged cane to help them hurry through the line.
Caroline could see a kind of mild shock registering on everyone’s face. She must have looked worse than she thought. Woody came to her first.
“What happened to you?”
“I fell.”
His eyes went to the cat in her arms. Then the backpack, which was bursting with clothes she had confiscated from her mother’s house.
“Bad fall,” he said.
“You have no idea.”
They found a table in the dining area. Amos scooted his chair so close to her that their legs were touching, and he dedicated himself to rubbing her back.
“I’m sorry about the way things went yesterday,” she said. “I really am.”
“No, you’re not,” said Woody.
A beat went by.
“And you shouldn’t be,” Woody added. “You should feel angry. You deserve to feel angry.”
“Hell,” said Amos. “I’m angry, too, right now.”
“Why?” said Caroline.
“Because you look like you stood in front of a train.”
Woody stirred his oatmeal and blew on it. People started to fill up the dining area, sitting together, happily carrying on morning discussions over their complimentary inorganic matter. The guests kept stealing glances at her goldfish and her cat. Sometimes she felt ridiculous. This morning was one of those times.
“You aren’t going to tell us what happened to your face?” asked Amos.
“No.”
Woody tapped his spoon on the rim of his bowl. “Then what did you come here to talk about?”
She adjusted herself in her chair. “I want you to take me with you.”
Amos quit rubbing. Woody wiped his chin with a napkin. Nobody spoke for a few moments.
“You didn’t want anything to do with me yesterday,” said Woody.
“I have money. I can help with gas.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me who did that to your face?”
She looked down. “I told you, nobody.”
“And where is Nobody right now?” said Amos.
“I just want a clean start. That’s all.”
Woody sipped. “This isn’t the Disney Channel, kid. It doesn’t work that way.”
“I have my own money. I won’t be any problem.”
Woody began eating his oatmeal in earnest. He washed each bite down with routine sips. “Why don’t we start from the beginning and see if we can try a little honesty.” He looked at Caroline. “What do you say?”
She nodded.
Amos was still rubbing. “You just take your time, sweetie.”
Woody was looking directly at her. “Now, last night you wouldn’t have peed on us if we were on fire. Suddenly you show up with a bloody lip and it’s ‘take me with you, Daddy’? It looks and sounds to me like you’re in trouble. Is that true?”
“I honestly don’t know anymore.”
“Of course you don’t, baby,” said Amos.
“That’s fair,” said Woody. “But how do we know you’re not going to brain us with a stick half a mile down the road and steal my truck?”
“I don’t have a stick,” she said.
“What about your boyfriend?” asked Amos.
“He doesn’t have a stick either.”
“And what’s he think about you leaving?” asked Woody.
Caroline shook her head. “I didn’t ask him. I just wanted to get out of there.”
“I’m sorry,” said Woody. “But the answer is no.”
“No?”
“No, you can’t come with us.”
“What?” asked Amos. “She’s your daughter.”
Woody was talking to the old man now. “She’s a minor, in foster care. We can’t just remove her from the state. There’s a legal process to this. Tennessee courts could charge me with kidnapping. And believe me, the last thing I need is trouble with the law.”
Amos made a raspberry sound to indicate the level of respect he had for the law.
Caroline’s gaze fell downward.
“I’ve been living with my boyfriend since I left my last foster home, and my foster parents know that. They’ve never said a word about it. I don’t think anyone in the system even knows where I am. Nobody gives a crap what I do or where I go.”
“Believe me,” Woody said, “the courts give a crap about everything.”
She was pleading now. “I age out of the foster system in three months. By then it won’t matter. I can do whatever I want.”
“So call us in three months.”
Caroline absently touched her bruised cheek. Her eye felt swollen and hot. Thank God it wasn’t her good eye Tater had blackened, or she wouldn’t have been able to see well enough to drive. The throbbing spread all the way to her ears.
“You’re a priest, right?”
“I’m not a priest.”
“In the hospital,” said Caroline, “you gave my mom Communion.”
Woody tilted his head back. “And . . . ?”
“Well, isn’t a priest supposed to help people?”
His chest rose and fell with a sigh. “Help, yes. Break the law—not since I last checked.”
Caroline said, “‘For I hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in.’”
Woody’s eyes met hers.
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s not gonna work either.”
Chapter 17
Elizabeth stood before a trifold mirror with her mother behind her eyeing Elizabeth’s white gown, scrutinizing each fold of her garment, wrinkling her mouth at this and that, her fist fixed firmly beneath her chin like she had been sculpted by Auguste Rodin. Her mother took the hemline between her fingers, then traced her hands up Elizabeth’s hips and waist. She grabbed the fabric around Elizabeth’s bust.
“Chest needs to come in a little.”
Her mother pulled the material tightly across her bosom. “You could fit a three-year-old in the bust of this dress. This is the wrong one for you.”
“I like the cut of it,” said Elizabeth.
Her mother stood back at a distance and observed again. “No. I think I like the last one better. This is too sassy.”
“Sassy isn’t bad.”
“Sassy is bad on the day of your wedding.”
“What about on the day of your second wedding?”
Her mother ignored the remark. Denial was not a river in Egypt in Elizabeth’s family but the guiding principle on which the family had been established.
The phone in Elizabeth’s purse rang. She walked toward the sound, trying to maintain her balance in the heels that were tall enough to interfere with commercial airline traffic.
“Don’t answer that,” said her mother. “You’re busy right now.”
“It’s Woody.”
“Then definitely don’t answer that.”
Her mother had disliked Woody Barker from the moment she met him. From the day, so long ago, when her twenty-three-year-old brought home a forty-one-year-old world religion professor for supper. Surprise, Mom.
Elizabeth answered.
“Sorry to bother you,” Woody said, “but do we still have an air mattress?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Who’s it for?”
“An old friend. Can I borrow it?”
“I’ll leave it at your place this afternoon when I drop off Rachel.”
Long sigh. “About that.”
Elizabeth looked at her mother, who was listening to every word with an intensity often associated with Soviet espionage. Elizabeth held one finger up to her mother, then walked into one of the empty dressing rooms and shut the door.
“I can’t watch Rachel tonight,” he said.
She sat down in a chair and fell into the massive folds of her dress. It had been almost a week since Rachel had seen this man she was just getting to know. And already, three months into their blossoming relationship, he was bailing on her.
“Woody, I was counting on you. You know I go to work at four today. I don’t have anyone to watch her.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the babysitter.”
“It’s not about a babysitter. Rachel was looking forward to this. She’s waited her whole life to get to know you. This is huge for her. Are we still on for Friday?”
“Yes, but . . .”
Elizabeth kicked off her heels and massaged her aching feet.
“But what?”
“Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the last few days.”
“I thought I told you to quit thinking.”
She could hear him smoking on the other end.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’m doing your social life any favors, and I don’t think me being around is giving you or Rachel a fair shot with Jason. He deserves a real chance to be her dad. That’s not going to happen as long as you keep organizing playdates with a convicted felon.”
“Quit talking like that. You’re Rachel’s dad. Jason knows what he’s getting into.”
“Rachel deserves a lot better than watching her dad get spit on in public. And so do you.”
“Who cares about the public.”
Elizabeth looked at herself in the mirror. She did not look like a bride. She looked like a middle-aged soccer mom in a wedding dress.
“Okay,” said Elizabeth. “So are you’re telling me you want to be done with us now? Simple as that? After ten years of getting lawyers to fight for your release, after we sued Wallace for medical negligence, after we got your sentence commuted. Now that you’ve finally been set free, we’re finished?”
“Not finished. No. But I think it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
Sigh. “Time for me to return the favor and set you free.”
* * *
Tater sat in the police station watching the officer shovel paper from one side of his desk to the other. He was surprised to see so much paperwork being used in a police station. This was the twenty-first century. Or maybe it was the twentieth century. He honestly couldn’t remember which. Either way, he thought everything had gone paperless. Apparently he was wrong.
He remembered sitting in a similar station with his mother long ago. He was maybe six or seven. His mom called 911 to report a domestic disturbance in her household. The cops came and removed his mother, along with Tater and his little brother, Miller. Tater and his brother sat in the police station all day with their battered mother, playing with coloring books, eating microwave popcorn, while Tater’s mother filed a report against their daddy.
“Are you Taylor Bunson?” asked the officer.
Tater stood from the bench in the hallway. “That’s me.”
The officer said the Honda Civic EJ1 had been recovered in a Best Western parking lot. The keys had been in the glove box. The car had been left unlocked. It had a full tank of gas.
“And you say you think you know who stole it?” asked the officer.
Tater glanced through a dividing window into a cluster of cubicles in the next room. He could see a woman on the other side, waiting. She was about his age, sitting on a chair, a few kids with her. And she was pregnant. Her hair was a mess. Her clothes were rags. Her face was bruised.
“No, I don’t think it was stolen,” said Tater. “I think this was all just a misunderstanding.”
“Sounds like more than just a misunderstanding to me.”
Tater thought back to the events from the night before. He felt the burden of his own humiliation settling on him.
“It was a friend who stole the car, so it’s no big deal.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “A friend?”
“My girlfriend, actually. We kind of got into a fight.”
The policeman nodded like it was all making a lot more sense now. The officer tossed the stack of papers onto his desk and folded his hands.
The pregnant woman in the other room was crying before a gaggle of officers surrounded her. A female officer was now sitting beside the woman and consoling her.
The officer said, “It’s a felony, stealing a car. You realize that. You have rights here, Mr. Bunson. This was a criminal act, girlfriend or not.”
Tater shook his head. “No. It’s all good.”
The officer waited. “Is it?”
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
The policeman got a pen from a jar on his desk and clicked it. “What’s your girlfriend’s name? How about we start there and see where it leads us.”
Tater shook his head. “No. I don’t want to do that.”
The officer apparently got the message and let out a deep breath. “I can’t help you if you don’t give me something to go on.”
“I don’t need help. I just want my car back.”
The young woman was being led away by the female cop. Her two children were holding hands, following behind the young woman.
“All right, you’re the boss,” said the officer. “Let’s make a copy of your driver’s license, and you should be good to go.”
The officer spun to and fro in his office chair, making a copy of this, a copy of that. Then the officer reached into an envelope and withdrew a set of car keys. He handed them to Tater, who placed them into his pocket.
When Tater stood to leave, the pregnant young woman in the other room was watching him through the window.
But he was avoiding her eyes.
Chapter 18
Woody believed that every person was given one adventure in their lifetime. The kind of adventure that changes a person’s life. The kind of experience that pierces you, reaches into your core, withdrawing your heart from the cavern of your chest, causing you to examine yourself, causing you to grow. This adventure makes you more human than you ever thought you could be. And it happened when you least expected it. Where it took you was a mystery. But the end result was always the same.
His Ford Ranger sped down the interstate doing an easy seventy-five. Caroline was sitting in the middle, reading a book in a curious position, holding the book far away from her face. Woody’s dad was in the passenger seat, sleeping with his head pressed against the window, a string of drool running down his chin and onto his shirt. The gray cat was sleeping in the Major’s lap. Gary was on the dashboard, his packet of fish food and bottle of aquarium pH stabilizer beside his jar. They were a mobile PetSmart.
Throughout the entire ride, Caroline had not said more than three words. But Woody watched her when she wasn’t looking. He studied her profile, her mannerisms, her body language, her reactions to the world around her. The way she held her head. The way she closed one eye to read. The shape of her nose. The roundness of her youthful features. The way she licked her thumb and forefinger before she turned a page. The way she breathed through her nostrils with a slight sinus whistle.
“Who’s going to miss you back home?” Woody asked the girl beside him.
The beautiful mass of red hair shook her head. “Nobody.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“My boss will be mad, but that’s about all.”
“Should we call him?”
“Sexist much? And no, she’ll figure it out.”
She went back to reading. Her nose was almost grazing the pages.
They passed a few billboards. Cracker Barrel. McDonald’s. Chick-fil-A. The Big Three. The interstate was littered with advertisements. One of the most jarring things about leaving prison was all the advertisements. Ads on every flat surface, digital platform, and billboard. Product names plastered on people’s clothing. On their shoes. On the bands of their underpants. And ads kept multiplying exponentially as though they were having wild billboard sex every night when the world was asleep and making new ad babies.
